


quiero decirte (que no te cambio por ninguno)

by winterveined



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Footy Ficathon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3067865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterveined/pseuds/winterveined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the following <a href="http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/33981.html?thread=826045#t826045">prompt</a>: torres returns to atletico, and he tries-- iker swears he tries to ignore the knot in his stomach, the bitter taste in his mouth and the feeling of dread taking over him, for sergio's sake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	quiero decirte (que no te cambio por ninguno)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlemagician](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemagician/gifts).



Iker should have known.

He should have known the moment that Sergio looked at his phone, and his lips went from a grin to a thin line, pressing one another together as his brows furrowed.

He should have known the moment that Sergio said “I need to call someone. I’ll meet you at the pitch.”

Here’s the thing about Sergio: he cares, and cares, and cares. He cares about everything, he cares about everyone. Sergio loves, and feels, and furrows his brows and will do whatever he needs to do to help. But Iker knows that look. Iker has seen it times and times again throughout the years, has dealt with it more times than he wants to admit.

Iker should have known that something was even wronger when Sergio gets out of the tunnel, animated jumps and a fucking grin on his lips that stretches from one ear to the other. Iker frowns, tilting his head ever so lightly.

“Everything okay?” He asks carefully, words slowly coming out of his lips.

“Yeah. _Yeah_.” It’s all he gets as an answer and Sergio is fucking _glowing_.

*

Iker’s at home when it happens.

He’s sitting on the couch, head tucked inside one of the cushions, two steps into Morpheus’ arms and one paying attention to the news shining brightly on the television in front of him. It takes a couple of seconds until he connects the words “Atletico Madrid”, “back to” and “Fernando Torres” together. It takes him a couple of seconds until his eyes are wide open, Morpheus long gone and his heart pulsing against his ears.

His phone beeps twice, and Iker knows who it is without having to look. He knows who it is, and he chooses to ignore because he can’t do this, he can’t do this right now, not right now, not when his stomach is churning and there’s a bitter taste in his mouth that he doesn’t understand, that he doesn’t want, that he wants nothing more than to extinguish.

Fernando Torres is back to Spain. No, not Spain. He isn’t somewhere across the country, he isn’t miles and miles away, hours by plane, even more by train. He isn’t in Barcelona, or Malaga, or Valencia. He’s in Madrid. He is, of all places, in Madrid, so near that Iker can smell the sweetness of his expensive cologne, can hear his laughter ringing on his ears. It makes his stomach twist and turn, and he shuts his eyes with more strength than needed.

_This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening_.

Iker’s phone beeps three times, and he doesn’t find it in himself to reach for it.

He doesn’t find it in himself to swallow past the knot that forms in his throat either, and so he turns the TV off and takes the stairs up, and up, and up, until his head is buried in the immensity of pillows and his mind is as far away as possible from Fernando Torres, Madrid, and Sergio.

It doesn’t stay away for long.

It doesn’t fucking stay away.

Sometimes Iker closes his eyes and he is with Sergio, sharing kisses underneath the blankets, laughing of some stupidity either one of them said. Sometimes he closes his eyes and he can feel Sergio’s lips on his forehead, and hear him whispering “Como no te voy a querer” against his ear, how could I not love you, you, _you_. Never anyone else, only him.

Sometimes Iker closes his eyes and he is in 2006, and Sergio isn’t with him. Sergio is never with him. Sergio giggles on the locker room and talks loudly, and looks at Fernando Torres like he is the sun and the moon and the stars, all at once, all together.

Sometimes Iker closes his eyes and he’s with Sergio, lying lazily against Santiago Bernabéu’s grass, only them, no one else, sharing stories and fears, remembering victories and losses, their distance growing smaller and smaller with every sentence spoken.

Sometimes Iker closes his eyes and he’s in 2010, a golden medal wrapped around his neck, eyes shut and silent prayers that this end, or that he fucking stops listening to Sergio and Nando’s moans because he doesn’t fucking deserve it, thank you very fucking much.

And sometimes, and this is the one that happens more often, the one that hunts him, the one that brings a spoiled taste to his mouth. Sometimes Iker closes his eyes, and he sees Sergio standing alone in the locker room, cellphone on his hands and body curled together. “It’s all over” he says, and Iker doesn’t get it, not at first. “He met someone. He told me nothing happened, that he wouldn’t do that to me. But he met someone, and he really likes her, and now we’re---” and Iker is there, in a second, in a heartbeat, soothing him, telling him that everything is going to be fine. “I wish I could hate him. I wish he didn’t do the right thing.”

Iker wishes he could hate him, too.

*

Iker arrives late for practice on the next day. (Needless to say, it attracts a considerable of confused looks, and Marcelo looks at him with a grin stapled to his face and says “My child, I have never been prouder.” Iker is not entirely sure of what Marcelo is proud of, but he doubts that it is anything good.)

He scans the room for Sergio, and finds him on his phone, a huge grin on his face as he types on a unbelievable speed.

(It’s nothing. Stop thinking too much. He might be talking to anyone. It’s nothing. (It’s everything)).

*

It’s has never had the need to be scheduled, because it’s their thing, it has always been their thing, but Iker is sitting on the grass of the Bernabéu, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed and a lump on his throat that won’t go away.

Sergio is late. (Sergio is always late, but he is late in a way that he had never been, that he should not because it’s their thing, god fucking damn it).

Iker regrets telling him that he didn’t mind if he met Fernando for lunch.

He regrets saying that he didn’t mind if they went out the week before, without saying anything other than “Don’t be late for practice.”

He closes his eyes, and his breath gets stuck on his throat.

He should have fucking known.

(Sergio comes half an hour later, an apologetic smile on his lips as he walks into the pitch. Iker doesn’t notice the regret that shines on his eyes, or the way that he says “Nora and Leo are huge!” like he wants him to know _I wasn’t alone with him, don’t get mad_. He doesn’t notice any of that.)

*

Fernando Torres is sunshine.

He is sunshine and happiness wrapped in a human being. He has a constant flush of his cheeks, his body is something else, he is good, and happy and-- He has fucking freckles, for gods sake. He is sunshine and happiness and Iker is grumpiness and constant complaining.

Iker can’t fucking compete with that. (Yes, he can. He can because when they’re alone in a room, Iker smiles at Sergio lazily, and says “I love you, I love you so much” when he thinks Sergio is asleep.)

He can’t compete with that, and he can’t do anything about it either. Sergio seems happier around Fernando. He grins widely, tilts his head back, and smiles. He looks at Iker with his big brown eyes, and says “So, what are we doing tomorrow?” and Iker shrugs, _whatever you want, babe._

Iker pretends that he doesn’t consider asking Sergio if he wants to end it all. He pretends that he doesn’t notice the way that Sergio looks at him expectantly every time he says “Maybe we could go to dinner with Fernando” and Iker says “Maybe some other day”.

_Whatever you want but not that, please, not that._

*

A month after Fernando returns, Sergio puts his hand on Iker’s shoulder, careful eyes and lips pressed together as if he’s searching for the right words to say.

“Is everything okay between us? You’ve been acting kind of weird lately and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Iker considers not doing anything. He considers, he really considers, saying “I’m just nervous because of the upcoming games” or some other excuse that he can create. He considers it, more than he should. (More than he should because isn’t it selfish to not ask Sergio what he wants, to not tell Sergio that he will be okay if they end it all, that he has been through heartbreaks before, that he will understand, _I want you to be happy, that’s all_.)

“Do you want to be with Torres?” Iker asks, words heavy on his tongue, stomach twisting and turning as he looks at Sergio’s expression go from confused, to shocked, to-- amused?

Sergio laughs.

He tilts his head upwards, and fucking _laughs_ , loud and obnoxiously, and he even fucking claps and he looks at Iker before breaking into laughter again.

Iker stares, his lips pressed together and his brows furrowed in confusion, his head slightly tilted to the right. He doesn’t see what is so funny about this, really. He doesn’t know what made Sergio laugh so fucking hard, but, hey, at least he’s not sweating nervously about to say “Yeah, I was wanting to talk to you about that…”, right?

“Oh, wait, you’re--Are you serious?” And, just like that, the smile on his lips is gone, and there’s a mist of confusion and fondness on his expression. “Iker…”

_Answer me_ , he wants to say. _Please, answer me, please say no._ He wants to say but the words don’t leave his lips. The words get stuck on his throat, the words get lost on the way out, melt along with his courage. Iker looks at his feet, and plays with the band of his shirt, lips pressed together and heart beating faster, faster, faster. He raises his look only to find Sergio staring at him, with a hint of seriousness that Iker doesn’t see very often outside the pitch, that is usually reserved for when Sergio has the band wrapped around his arm.

“No, I don’t.” Sergio doesn’t sound amused. He sounds pissed. He sounds beyond pissed. “ Why the fuck would you even--Me and Fernando were okay. We were good. I loved him, I did, but he wasn’t enough. I still care for him, but he’s not you, Iker. I don’t fucking understand what was going through your mind, honestly.”

“I remember the way you were with him. I remember how heartbroken you were when he left, I--” _I didn’t want to lose you_ , he means to say, but he doesn’t. “I love you.”

“Yeah, asshole, I fucking love you too.”  

He should have fucking known.

*

(Sergio doesn’t know the answer to the mysteries of the world, doesn’t know how to resolve lengthy mathematical algorithms, doesn’t know how to draw, or write, or paint. He’s not very good with words, and he takes criticism to heart. He gets angry too quickly, loses his temperament like it’s nothing. He feels too much, every emotion hitting home, every emotion raw and true. Sergio doesn’t know the answers to the mysteries of the world, but he prides himself on knowing what is necessary.

He knows that he loves football. That nothing is quite as revigorating as a win, as lifting a trophy, as hearing a crowd chant your name, and your name only. That nothing feels quite as good as Santiago Bernabéu exploding with pride and love and adoration, nothing feels quite as good as Como no te voy a querer over and over and over again, blasting on your ears. It didn’t take him long to know this.

It took him long to realize that Fernando wasn’t what he wanted. It took him stolen kisses in different locker rooms, took him late night visits, long, sweaty nights, where their breaths melted into one another. It tooks him hours where one minute they were talking, and. the other, pressed against each other, kissing each other’s neck, crotch, lips. It took him heartache, nights crying and broken promises to realize that Fernando wasn’t what he wanted.

He doesn’t know when he figured it out. When his lips pressed against Iker’s cheek stopped being just friendly, when their hands started to meet and interlace unintentionally, and intentionally. He can’t pinpoint when it happened, he can’t pinpoint when it changed, when Iker was there, and Iker was all that mattered, but it happened, and it happens everyday. Because Iker is Iker. Iker is grumpy, and Iker complains. Iker doesn’t like hugs, or touches, but he hugs and kisses and holds Sergio anyway. Iker tells him to go fuck himself, only to tell him that he loves him seconds later.

Iker is all that Sergio has ever wanted. Iker is the sun peaking out after a stormy day, Iker is the one to whom he wants to return home everyday. Iker is the snore in the middle of the night, and the warmth next to his body on the bed. Iker is the smell of coffee in the early morning, the taste of apples in the afternoon and expensive wine at night. Iker is safety, and comfort and love.

The dictionary defines home as ‘the place where one lives permanently’, but it should be defined as Iker Casillas.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/schwnies) or [Tumblr](http://sergiohamos.tumblr.com/). Comments are always loved & appreciated <3.


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